Extra Credit
by Ersatz Einstein
Summary: Following the events of "Batman Adventures Annual #1," Molly Randall is feeling conflicted. How can her kind professor and the Scarecrow be the same man? For his part, Prof. Crane just wants to be friends. No romance of any kind. Rated T for rape references. Please R&R.
1. Chapter 1

The guards looked up as she entered. Her presence was… surprising, to say the least. She was obviously not a reporter (at least, not a _normal_ reporter), appearing more timid than frightened. Secondly, she was young. She couldn't have been more than nineteen, although her smart suit and well-applied makeup suggested that she wished to appear professional. She was shaking a little as she approached the front desk. In spite of her evident vulnerability, they kept their tasers prepared. It never hurt to be cautious in their line of work.

"Can I help you?" one man asked, not unkindly.

"Y-yes." She took a deep breath and straightened. "I'm here to see Professor Diedr- Crane." She blushed.

Something about the name rang a bell, but the guard didn't stop to consider it. "And your name is…?"

"Molly Randall. Sir." She smiled shakily and extended her hand, to which the guard replied with a raised eyebrow that clearly said, "I'm sorry, but we're not _that_ stupid."

"I'll have to consult with Dr. Bartholomew. Would you go with my friend here?" he said aloud. She nodded eagerly and followed the other man on duty to a back room as the guard at the desk took out a walkie-talkie.

"Dr. Bartholomew?" he asked. "There's a young woman here for Crane."

"What's her name?"

"She says it's Molly Randall."

There was a pause and an accompanying hiss of static. "Send her in," sounded the reply.

…

Molly was confused, bordering on terrified. When they'd told her _who_ exactly her counselor was, she hadn't understood. She'd said that there had to be a mistake, that the kind, intelligent professor to whom she had grown attached couldn't be… well, _ill_, to put it bluntly. That's what they'd told her, though. "Jonathan Crane, alias Scarecrow. Master criminal. Delusional sadist. Self-styled master of fear."

She'd read through his file with a mixture of shock and rage. He had used human beings as _test subjects._ He had tortured _children_. It was incomprehensible to her. She'd grown up in a small town out of state and was attending a tiny university forty miles from the city. This sort of cruelty, of _insanity_, defied understanding.

Worse still, no matter how many times she told herself that he was evil, heartless scum, no matter how many times she tried to picture him as the violent scarecrow, she couldn't seem to stop thinking about- well, _him_. The way he'd laughed when she'd called _A Midsummer Night's Dream_ overrated. The brief spark of joy that had entered his face as he'd glanced at her following a depressing scan of his students. The way he'd held her as she told him about what Bromley had done on her date, as she'd begun to cry.

The way he'd avoided her eyes when the police were taking him away.

Lost in thought, she undressed and submitted to a strip search without flinching. Even the way she carefully cradled her glasses was mostly reflex. She donned her clothes as soon as she was allowed to do so, still moving in a dream as she walked down a long, dark corridor lined with windows of bulletproof glass.

The sounds brought her back to reality. The screams of pain and madness; a high-pitched laugh, which (being from out of state) she had never heard; and, after about half a minute ("forty-one seconds" chirped some annoyingly detached part of her), curious murmurs and loud, impudent questions.

"Is she the new shrink?"

"Don't be stupid. She's just a kid! 'Sides, I heard-"

"No one cares, Harley!"

"Hey, miss, who are you?"

"What are you doing here?"

"Shut up, freaks!" shouted the guard, gently tugging her along as she tried to repress a shudder. Their faces were as mad, as frightening, as their voices.

"H-how much further?" she asked, surprised at the low squeak she was producing.

"Well, that depends," muttered the uniformed man beside her. "He might not be in his cell, which would mean that we'd have to go to the rec. room." He paused and studied her face, noting her distress. "Hang on. Maybe I can ask."

Drawing himself up to his full height, the guard marched over to a nearby cell. It wasn't the nearest, though, which was slightly confusing. Molly didn't have time to consider the guard's reasons for preferring this prisoner to another, as before she knew it, he was rapping on the transparent wall.

The man who came forward shocked her. He was a monster, a reptile, lizard-ish _something_. ("Like something out of Dante," came the thought, unbidden.) He looked over at her and nodded, once. She held her shoulders to keep from shaking.

"Where's Crane, Jones?" barked the guard.

The monster shrugged. "Not in his cell," he grunted. "I'd guess rec. room."

"He'd better be." The guard marched back to her and took her arm. She was still shivering. "Come on, let's go."

…

Compared to that long, hopeless corridor, the recreational area seemed… pleasant. It was brighter, and although she could hear talking and laughing, it sounded more like the soundtrack for a family get-together than that for a madhouse. As they approached, she could pick out a pair of voices arguing over the remote, to which she couldn't resist a smile.

The guard walked in ahead of her. "Crane!" he called. "You've got a visitor!"

"Really, who?" She almost cried at the sound of the voice. Until now, there had still been a part of her that had believed that it was a lie, that he wasn't here, or that it was a completely different version of him that lived like this, that could cope with this. That gentle "who," however, had carried his mildly cultured accent, his owlish, professorial affectation. It was he.

"Some girl named-"

"Oooh!"

"Has my dear March Hare found his own Alice?"

"You charmer, you!"

"SHUT UP!" Crane shouted.

She flinched. Fortunately, the rabble quieted down enough for her to hear the rest.

"Now," her teacher continued in a tone of irritation. "Would you kindly tell me the identity of this young lady, who I do hope will forgive the crass behavior of my fellow inmates?" She realized that he had at least guessed that she was within earshot.

Suddenly, she just wanted to see him and get it over with. She quickly marched through the door to the rec. room.

"Her name is-" the guard was saying.

"-Ms. Randall," Crane whispered, staring at her in horror.


	2. Chapter 2

Once, at the university, Molly had leant Prof. Diedrich her copy of _Anna Karenina._ He'd already read it, of course, but she'd insisted that he review it before they discussed it. In the middle of their conversation on the book, he had suddenly remembered a pertinent passage and opened his borrowed copy, staring intently at the lines even as his fingers thumbed quickly past each page. It gave the impression that, rather than merely skimming, he was reading at five times the normal rate.

That was the look which he was currently giving his fellow Rogues. He glanced at each one, summing them up and dismissing them in the same movement.

'_Ivy? Appears normal._

_Nigma? Irritating, but hasn't said anything yet._

_Dent? Looking at her. Not good._

_Tetch? Quiet, thank God._

_Wesker? Nearby and talking to his puppet. Damn!'_

His thoughts continued in this way as he realized, for perhaps the first time, exactly _what_ type of impression he was giving by a) associating with them and b) staring. (Also, he couldn't help but notice that Molly's eyes were following his about the room.) Clearing his throat, he turned back to her.

"Might I inquire as to the purpose of your visit?" He winced. That had felt forced.

With clear effort, she straightened up and looked directly at him, trying not to notice his averted eyes. "I'm afraid that it's rather a private manner." She turned to the guard at her left. "May we-?"

"Um, sure. I'll set up an interview room for you." The hulk turned to one of his coworkers. "Take Crane to his cell. I'll set her up in the interview suite."

Crane was too flabbergasted to do anything but comply when rough arms grabbed his shoulders.

…

He was trying very hard not to look at Molly. She was on the other side of a pane of _bulletproof glass_, for the love of God! He was terrified that she'd be threatened. He had no idea how to begin, and so was sickeningly grateful when she saved him the trouble.

"So, are you _really_ a professor?"

"Um, yes. Well, I was, at any rate. I was denied tenure shortly before… well, I…" He trailed off.

"English?"

"Psychology, actually. I did my doctoral thesis on fear as a, um, paralytic."

She smiled, shifting into a position similar to that taken during his class. "Would you care to elaborate?"

"Yes! I mean, um, sure. Well, people always explain fear as a motivator, a source of action. For example, fear of losing one's child could lead one to…"

They spent most of the afternoon talking in this manner. After half an hour, she even began to take notes. There wasn't a single pause in their discourse until 3:00. They were both satisfied with the conclusion of a minor debate on the possible parallels between the Baroque Period and the Dadaist movement. Both were gorged upon the sweet fruit of their argument. Then Molly spoke.

"Professor?" She sounded hesitant. That wasn't good.

"Yes, Molly?"

"Those people, here, I… Why are they here?"

He stared at her, aghast, for a moment. Then he remembered. "Of course, you're not from Gotham. My apologies for forgetting. Well, there are a lot of u- them, so would you be more specific?"

"That man at the table with you. Y-you were playing chess, and there… there was something wrong with his face. Half of it, anyway. W-who was he?"

He sighed and grasped the bridge of his nose. "That was former District Attorney Dent. Reasonably intelligent, if somewhat constrained. Schizophrenia with definite division of personality. His second personality emerged when his face was injured." Seeing her suppressed shudder, he brightened his tone. "But he's not that ill, really! In fact, I have it on excellent authority that he'll be cured yet."

She smiled a little. "Really?"

"Yes, of course, child. A large number of those here are expected to make a full recovery. Take Mr. Nigma, for instance. He was the redhead waiting to play winner. His doctor is calling for a psychiatric review of his case. It's likely that he'll be released within the month."

"Yes, well…" Her nervousness returned. "What about you?"

He looked down at his hands and began to rub them. "The… incident at your school is perhaps the closest I've ever come to actual release. It's believed that I will never make a full recovery." He stood and walked to the back of his cell.

"Guard! I believe that we're finished here."

She didn't argue as they led her out.


	3. Chapter 3

Their next five meetings were comparable. They would discuss any number of abstract concepts at length, often losing track of both time and location. However, as soon as she mentioned Arkham, or the Scarecrow, or any number of things in immediate reality, he would grow cold and distant, if not outright rude. By some unspoken agreement, she only called him Diedrich. Molly was getting sick of it. That was why she walked into their seventh meeting with a plan.

She straightened in her chair and crossed her legs as she waited for him in front of his cell. Finally, the door opened and the skinny professor tumbled in, pushed, no doubt, by an overzealous guard. His initial glare of annoyance was replaced by an almost paternal smile when he saw her.

"Ah, Molly. If I'd known that that was the reason for my summons, I would have come that much faster." He sat cross-legged on the floor, grinning broadly. "Now, I was wondering if you had any thoughts on the possible involvement of African monarchs in the development of-"

"Professor Crane."

He flinched. She did her best to ignore him.

"We need to talk about what happened. With Bromley."

"Molly, I'm actually a little tired." He got up to call the guard. "The nights here are surprisingly long, and-"

"I'm not stupid."

He froze, then slowly turned around and sat across from her. He stared at his fingers as they nervously steepled and pulled at one another.

"I'm s-sorry, Molly. I didn't mean to suggest as much."

"Don't apologize for that." She pinched her forehead, trying to remember what she had meant to say. "Just… don't apologize. I'm not mad. We just need to talk. You know…" She trailed off.

He sighed, getting to his feet. "I don't see what there is to talk about, to be quite frank. Much as I hate to admit it, the flying rodent was right. It was only a matter of time before I "reverted to type." Bluntly put, I'm a violent sadist." He shrugged. "That probably won't change."

"That's an excuse."

"What?" He was genuinely confused. After all, it was perfectly straightforward to him.

"You're a _psychologist_. You of all people should know the dangers of using a diagnosis as a crutch!" She rose to her feet, barely noticing for her anger. "You're so stupid! So blind! Do you understand the _massive_ degree of cognitive dissonance you're demonstrating? You seem to believe that a) you alone, of all of those here, are incurable, b) your illness is a reason for everything you do, and c) while you have to maintain a ridiculous standard of academic ability, you have no compulsion to maintain social ability! It's flat-out irresponsible!"

"Molly, please listen. I-"

"Don't you dare! You are not exempt from culpability, and you will give me a better, or at least more specific, reason for your actions than sadism!" She took a deep breath. "Is that clear?"

He nodded meekly. Realizing that she was on her feet, she sat down. She even gave him a quick smile, gone before he could return it. "Now," she said, calmly adjusting her glasses. "Why did you attack Matthew Bromley?"

There was a pause. "Because he hurt you."

"Why did that bother you?"

"You mean it wouldn't have bothered _you_? That monster _hit_ you, _grabbed at_ you, he… He hurt you. Wouldn't you have cared if it had been someone else?"

"The question isn't my capacity to care. It's yours. You regularly terrorize innocents. Why was this scenario different?"

"Because I know you, and you're… You don't deserve it."

"And other people do?"

"No, but they're not as important."

"I see. So, I'm important to you?"

"I didn't say that!" The next pause was almost a minute long. "…But yes."

She nodded. "Have you ever considered that there are others who have similar emotions about your victims?"

"Yes, but that's immaterial. _My_ victims are ordinary, mindless dullards. If anything, I make their shallow lives more interesting."

"Your file says that you've been prevented from poisoning Gotham's water supply."

"So?"

"That's an indiscriminate attack. You had no way of knowing the temperament, IQ, or value of each person involved in that "experiment." That's what you called it, right? An experiment?"

"Yes. Well, I, um… I didn't think about that."

"I didn't think so. Furthermore, there are myriad qualities that can be used to differentiate individuals, any one of which can be used as a criterion for superiority. Therefore, how can you know that your criteria for acceptable victims are sufficient? You might as well be judging your victims on their eye color or religion. In fact, those might've been better. At least they're concretely applicable."

She waited for his scathing retort. It didn't come. Instead, there was a silence of several minutes.

"Molly?"

"Yes, Professor Crane?"

"Do you think it was right for me to hurt Bromley?"

She paused. "I don't know. It was certainly much less wrong than other things you've done. That'll have to be enough."

She stood. "I'll be back tomorrow. We can talk about the burial mounds then That _is_ what you wanted to talk about, right?"

"Yes, it is. I'll try to hurry here."

He got up to call the guard, then turned back to face her.

"Molly?"

"Yes, Professor Crane?"

"I'll be sure to… think about it. In the future. And, um… Thank you."

"Thank _you_, professor."

He nodded and turned around to call the guard.

* * *

**Hi! I'm not sure whether I should end it now or add another chapter or two. I'll be setting up a poll on the subject, so PLEASE vote. (You can find it on my profile page.) I'll decide what to do when I get a total of 10 votes. **

**I know that you're ignoring this, so I'll just call the story "complete" until I get _some_ replies.**


	4. Chapter 4

"I was bullied a great deal as a child." He paused, trying to decide how to best put it. "The other children didn't quite understand me, and that made them hate me. To make matters worse, I was naturally rather… reserved."

"I see." The look on Molly's face was familiar and unusual at the same time. She had that same half-concerned, half-curious look that he saw on the faces of most therapists. The unusual part was that he was, for once, certain that it was genuine. He normally looked upon that sort of expression as a mask, screening it out entirely after a few seconds. This time, he couldn't help but take it seriously and wonder at the emotions in question. Shaking himself from his reverie, he realized that she was still patiently waiting for him to continue.

"They called me Ichabod. It really shouldn't have bothered me. Inferior minds, you know…" He rubbed the back of his neck sheepishly. "But it did. A great deal. I was always very self-conscious about-about everything, really. I passed my time by reading, and as you know, books tend to give one an exaggerated idea of what is to be expected. I wanted to do everything perfectly. If I got 91% on a test, I wouldn't rest until I'd gotten 100% on another in the same subject. I did charity work, but more because it was what a good person would do than because I wanted to do it."

"Do you think that other people perform charitable actions for similar reasons?"

He paused to consider the question. "I suppose so. If our psychological experiments have proven anything, it's that the average person won't lift a finger unless someone expects him to. There are exceptions, I suppose, but they're much more unusual than most are willing to admit.

In any case, I did everything, but wasn't really invested in any of it. I even tried out for sports, by the way. I'd just read the _Iliad_, you see, so I was interested in the concept of honoring the gods through physical prowess, by fighting their battles."

She waited for four minutes before asking the obvious question. "What happened?"

"I became an ardent sportsman and am now playing in the Yankees! What do you think?" He pinched his forehead. "I-I'm sorry. That was rude. They didn't let me on the team, and there were snide remarks among the students for weeks following the tryout. Apparently the way I run is… abnormal. I actually didn't run in front of people- unless I absolutely had to- for a while after that.

After that, I spent more and more time at the library. Books were comforting, I suppose. I found that there existed plenty of nonstandard heroic archetypes. They were never very important to general narratives, but they were the more realistic for it. I particularly liked the idea of the man dedicated to science, indifferent to politics or the opinions of others in his dedication to his art. It was an ideal with which I could identify. Hence, it wasn't particularly shocking that I went to medical school."

"What made you decide on psychiatry?"

He tapped his chin thoughtfully. "I don't know. I suppose that I didn't really understand people, least of all myself. That's why many go to college, correct? To 'find themselves.'" He paused to see if she enjoyed his stab at humor. Her face was expressionless. He sighed and continued. "I didn't have much of a social life, you see, so I had to discover who I was by other means. A science dedicated to human thought was thus very attractive." He shrugged. "I couldn't tell you more than that."

She leaned over and turned off her tape recorder. "Alright. I think that that's enough for today. Perhaps we could talk about how you became interested in fear the next time I visit?"

"That sounds acceptable."

She smiled and stowed the recorder. "Well, we have an hour or so left before visiting hours end." Her grin was distinctly provocative. "So… what would you say if I told you that African leaders in the 600's inspired the Aztecs?"

"I'd tell you that you were out of your mind." He straightened in his chair and began to enumerate his points.


	5. Chapter 5

"You seem nervous."

He rubbed his arm and nodded, sitting down. "I suppose I am." When he noticed that she was waiting for him to continue, he sighed. "I suppose that I'm not used to being…probed."

"That's an interesting choice of words." She leaned forward a little. "Tell me, what do you think of when you think of therapy?" He paused to consider the question. "No, don't think about it. Just tell me what leaps to mind."

"Straightjackets. Shivering from the cold. Laughter. Not in a positive sense," he hastened to add. "Mocking laughter."

"So the thought of therapy makes you feel trapped _and_ exposed?"

"Yes, and the implied paradox is fully acknowledged." His expression was cold, his tone acerbic.

"I gather that you don't consider this to be a true paradox."

"Of course I don't!"

"Because the feeling of being trapped is substantially different from the feeling of vulnerability." It wasn't a question, but he answered it anyway.

"Yes, I…" He took a deep breath. "The trapped feeling is physical. It's the straightjacket. It's being-" he gestured "-here.

In contrast, the vulnerability is internal. It's about being watched while I'm this-this exposed." He tapped his chin thoughtfully. "Actually, now that I consider it further, I suppose that those are really the same feeling."

"How so?"

"Well, I wouldn't be concerned about emotional exposure if I were alone, would I? It's akin to a caged animal's fear when it curls up into a ball. It doesn't really want to contort itself still further within its prison, but it doesn't want to allow its captors to harm it." Without realizing it, Crane had started to unconsciously pull at his fingers as he talked. "I guess that it comes back to being mocked and bullied." He looked up. "I just don't want to be hurt."

Molly took her glasses off and cleaned them. When she put them back on, her expression was hard. "Alright. Now, what are you really thinking?"

He clapped and let out a loud _caw _of laughter. "You are exceptional, Molly, you really are. I can't tell you how many dim-witted fools who coasted through medical school I've confused out of their tiny minds! You are-"

"Professor." He was surprised to see the suggestion of tears in her eyes. "I will not applaud your attempts to resist the help I'm offering you. I will not condone your past of manipulating others for your own amusement. So unless you would like to say something honest today-" she stood "-I'm leaving."

"Ms. Randall, you cannot be serious." She turned around. "It was just a joke." She began to walk to the door. He rose to his feet. "I really do enjoy our discussions. In fact, I-" she reached the door. "Molly, please!"

She paused, her left hand poised to knock for the guard.

"I'm sorry I lied to you. That's not even it. I-I lied about lying. I don't think that it's because of the bullies, but I was telling you the truth when I said that therapy… scares me." This last was said in such a low voice that he doubted that she had heard. Doubted, that is, until she turned around. She quietly walked back to her chair and sat.

"Why does it really scare you?"

"I don't… don't know." He half expected her to get up again. Even he thought that his answer was weak.

To his surprise, she picked up her pad and smiled at him gently. "Well, then, we'll have to find out, won't we?"


	6. Chapter 6

"It scares me because I don't trust people."

Molly blinked slightly, but beyond that, she betrayed no surprise. Apparently, he had given the matter some thought since their last session. She couldn't help but wonder, though, what had possessed him to blurt out such a thing before she had even had a chance to sit down.

Realizing that he was waiting, with fists clenched and trembling, for an answer, she made an effort to collect herself. "Why not?"

"Because they're idiots. They cannot understand how my mind works, its complexities, its desires…" He trailed off. She waited for a few minutes for him to continue, and her patience was rewarded. "I know what you're going to say. I am fully aware that it is arrogant to think myself superior to them. Nevertheless, I believe that it is true. My mind is rare, precious even, and I won't risk it."

"Risk it?"

"I may be pretentious, but I am also a psychologist. There are some areas in which the greatest mind in the world is identical to that of… of a common truck driver." He practically spat out the last five words, and felt compelled to take a deep breath before continuing. "In fact, several conclusive studies have shown that those who devote their mental energies to intellectual improvement lack certain… defense mechanisms." Pausing to consider his words, he realized that he was still standing. He sat down quickly.

"So you're afraid of… what, exactly?"

"I'm… _concerned _that, should I grant these yahoos unqualified access to my mental space, they will accidentally do damage that will prove irreversible."

She took a note. "Then why are you allowing me access?"

"Because you have the sense to be careful."

"I see." He waited while she scribbled some more. "Then you consider this an exception." It wasn't a question, but he answered it anyway.

"Yes."

"Does this signify a change in your behavior?"

"As regards openness, or as regards my 'career?'"

"Either."

He considered. "I suppose that this experience has been… helpful, at least as regards my opinions towards therapy. I believe that I can change, and that there are people who can help with that, which is… new for me. Thank you for that, by the way. I appreciate that you have been so… accommodating." He was rewarded by a smile, just cheeky enough to convey her disappointment in his sentence fragment.

"You're welcome. It was a pleasure."

There followed a comfortable silence lasting roughly seven minutes.

"What about the crime?"

Crane was shocked into an honest answer. "I'm never giving that up."

"I'm sorry." Without another word, she got up and left.

* * *

**And... that's it! Sorry, but I never really expected this to become this long, and I wasn't quite sure what to do with it at this point. Please R&R, as always, especially if you have something negative/constructive/clever to say.**


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